


Typical Cold

by Skepsis_Ree



Category: The Witcher (TV), The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M, NSFW, quick slow burn, staying warm during the cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skepsis_Ree/pseuds/Skepsis_Ree
Summary: A long oneshot fic for Geralt and Jaskier. I left it a little ambiguous if they have had sex before with one another or if this was their first time together."Jaskier and Gerald find themselves stranded in an abandoned watchtower in the middle of a blizzard. They need to stay warm and of course, Jaskier is determined to be stubborn because of the cold. They'll freeze to death if they don't keep each other warm. And Gerald starts the whole ordeal by telling Jaskier to take off his clothes. What else couldn't happen with a suggestion like that?"Read footnotes. Important.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, geraskier - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 136





	Typical Cold

It just wasn’t practical. It just wasn’t practical in any sense of the word. Staying in a broken-down tower, with no chance of rescue, destined to die in a blizzard. How did Jaskier find himself in these kinds of situations?

Jaskier was pressed up against the cold stone of the tower, his body shaking as he tried to keep his teeth from rattling out of his head. His lute was placed up above his head carefully, the remainders of his clothes stuff in his pack to give himself a pillow, the flimsy blanket wrapped tightly around him. He could hear the howling wind rattling through the tower above them, the sound barricaded by slatted floorboards and ceiling tiles, creating a draft. He could hear the darn storm raging outside; the wind buffeting the walls and sending shivers down his spine.

He glanced up as he heard the howling grow loader, the main door to the little room pushing open and letting snow in. Letting Geralt in.

Jaskier watched as he pushed the heavy wooden door open with some effort, the snow rolling around him and making him stand out in his all-black attire. They had come up here for some kind of job—Geralt had come up here for some kind of job-- and of course, Jaskier had tagged along. But they were derailed as they traveled up the mountain; nature choosing instead to curse them with foul weather and trapping them instead in an old watchtower. Something that hadn’t even been looked at in decades. There wasn’t even a hearth.

“Close the bloody door,” Jaskier stuttered out, his body shaking from the cold breeze. It wasn’t much warmer in here than it was outside, but at least they didn’t have snow inside.

Geralt grunted in reply, shooting the other a look as he pushed the door shut. Jaskier watched as he struggled against the heavy wood, as the wind attempting to force it open. He eventually got the door to close, wedging wood under the edge to keep it from flying open during the night.

Geralt turned, staring at Jaskier curled up on the ground as he took stock of the situation.  
“You’re going to die like that.” He said bluntly, not making an effort to move.

“I’m going to die? _We’re_ going to die!” Jaskier shot back, wrapping the blanket around himself tighter.

“Up against the stone like that,” Geralt continued, gesturing towards the bard as he turned towards his pack on the other side of the room. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier sat up, watching the other man. He was frustrated and cold and Geralt wasn’t making sense. He was going to die up against a wall or not. He hadn’t been prepared for this kind of weather and though he had warmer clothes to bear through such catastrophes, he hadn’t a warm bedroll or anything of that nature.

“Bless me with your words of wisdom or great Witcher.” Jaskier replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He felt like a grandmother wrapped in a shawl. He was bundled as tightly as he could be, but he was still shivering.

“Where’s the fire?” Geralt asked sternly, picking up some of the wood and looking it over.

“The wood is wet; I can’t get it to start.” He replied, leaning away from the wall as nonchalantly as he could.

Geralt grumbled, cracking one of the smaller pieces of wood in half, inspecting the inside. He tossed it aside, unsatisfied with what he had found.

“Fuck.”

He seemed to think for a moment, scanning the room as he tried to think of a way to get them out of this predicament.

“What about that?” He asked, nodding his head towards the lute.

Jaskier followed his gaze, looking at the instrument.

“Don’t you dare,” he said quickly. He stood as Geralt started to walk towards him, standing between the Witcher and the lute. “It will only burn for a moment and that lute is worth more than you can earn in a fortnight!” His voice was shrill, but he watched as those yellow eyes studied the instrument laying there. Geralt was thinking and standing strong in front of the shivering bard.

He seemed to think better of it and stepped away. Whether he had had a change of heart or truly believed that burning the instrument wasn’t going to be worth it.

“Give me that,” the Witcher said, grabbing the edge of Jaskier’s blanket and yanking it hard. The bard stumbled, wrapping up as he was in the cloth as it was pulled away. There was some back and forth before Geralt finally won the battle.

“You arse.” Jaskier spat, wrapping his arms around his own torso as he shivered in place.

“If we’re going to survive, you’re going to have to listen.” The white-haired man grumbled, flapping the blanket in the air to extend it to its full length before draping it on the ground in the middle of the room.

Jaskier nodded, his teeth chattering like some kind of reply. He was too cold to argue properly, and honestly, he didn’t care how Geralt was going to save them as long as they were saved. He even seemed to be caught off guard by this storm. They had to leave Roach at the foot of the mountain and the Witcher had stored much of his goods that he usually carried on his horse. Packing light to hike up the mountain. The smart thing to do. Jaskier usually packed light; hell, he was used to spending the night in taverns and some lucky woman’s bed, he didn’t need to carry his home on his back.

“So, I’m going to freeze to death because you want a throw-rug?” He asked, pointing a purpling hand towards the Witcher. He had laid the blanket out on the cold stone floor before going to retrieve his own pack.  
“You’re an idiot.” Geralt replied, taking two large blankets out of his own pack and a few spare pieces of clothing. He didn’t travel with much, but he had obviously anticipated that it would be a bit chilly up on the mountain. If Jaskier wasn’t mistaken, he had even grabbed the cloth he used for his tent.

“I’m just supposed to freeze to death?”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the man, giving him a stern look. His expression more than exasperated. He turned away, but Jaskier swore he heard a mumbled reply. Something close to: _‘I wouldn’t let you die.’_

“You have to create a buffer between the floor and your body,” the Witcher replied, his voice gruff as he explained himself. He gestured towards the blanket he had laid on the floor, draping the tent tarp there as well. “You lose the most heat through the ground.”

Jaskier nodded as he watched the man, understanding now why he had told him not to sleep against the wall. The stone was cold, and it was probably absorbing all of his body heat. Geralt had survived worse than this no doubt; it would be pathetic for a Witcher to die in a blizzard when there were dragons and wraiths knocking at the door, ready to drag him to hell. He was resilient, dependable, and though he was rough around the edges—jagged around the edges—he cared. Somewhere in his heart, he cared, even if he kept it locked away. A Witcher with a heart, who would have thought? He wasn’t just a money-making song topic either; he was the genuine article. Tough as nails, smart too and—

“Take your clothes off.” Geralt said as he pulled off his studded armour. He had packed their bags close by the blankets he had laid out and had the extra one laying nearby.

“I’m not in the mood,” Jaskier answered without thinking, his finger in his mouth as he chewed on a hangnail. He stopped and looked at the Witcher, catching his annoyed expression. He had already pulled off his shirt and was untying his trousers. Pale scars shining on red skin, the cold flushing his chest.

“For warmth.” Geralt replied with gritted teeth.

Jaskier waved his hand at the other as if dismissing the thought.

“I said I’m not in the mood.”

Geralt huffed with annoyance, stomping over to the smaller man. He was shirtless and his pants were half untied, scars beginning to pucker in the cold. He put his hands roughly on Jaskier’s doublet, angrily beginning to unhook and unbutton the clothes. He grabbed a fistful of the embroidered cloth, hoisting the bard slightly and forcing him to look at the clothing.

“These are wet.” He explained, sneer across his face. “You’re going to die. Take off your clothes.”

Jaskier recoiled slightly, shook by the aggression presented to him. He was used to Geralt losing his temper, and he was used to being on the other side of that temper, but it never ceased to amaze him just how intimidating Geralt could be. He was a rough man, and those sharp yellow eyes sent chills down his spine when they were full of anger. Even though that aggression felt hollow, it still made Jaskier whither under its weight.  
Geralt let go of him, almost slapping the clothing away as he turned back to the makeshift bed in the middle of the room. He took off his pants and sat down, quickly pulling the spare blanket over him as he rooted through Jaskier’s own pack.

“He-hey,” Jaskier swallowed, reaching towards the other as he watched Geralt pull out a few other doublets and put them over the foot of their ‘bed’.

Geralt only needed to give Jaskier one look before the bard shut up, swallowing his own frustrations as he began to unbutton the doublet he was wearing.

He felt shy suddenly; intimidated somehow as the Witcher watched him impatiently. There was a lack of sexual gaze from Geralt and it was making Jaskier feel uncomfortable. He turned away slightly, feeling odd for being embarrassed over such things. He used to being naked, getting naked, but it felt weird to be doing it with no precursor to the action. Like and instrument being played before it was tuned.

Geralt tsked to himself, almost as if he was disappointed that Jaskier had turned away. Like a tutor watching his student fail at a simple task. Jaskier frowned to himself, noting that the man had at least turned away as he finished undressing.

He shivered, feet slapping against cold stone as he hurried towards the bed and climbed under the covers. Shivering still he wrapped the blanket under his chin, glancing at the white-haired man beside him. It was warmer, he could feel that right away, and Geralt had packed them in the best he could with their bags acting as buffers and the extra clothes created a modicum of extra insolation. 

Geralt rolled onto his side, giving Jaskier a hard stare before he motioned for the man to move. Jaskier frowned and shifted in place, rolling so his back was facing the other man. The Witcher pressing up against him, wrapping his arms around the bard’s chest as Jaskier felt warmth fill him. He swallowed gently, trying to gather himself as Geralt pressed in close, spooning him.

“Your hands are cold,” Jaskier complained, not truly minding so much but feeling as if he needed to alleviate his own mood somehow. Geralt just grunted in reply, face against the back of the other’s neck. Warmth air brushing over Jaskier’s skin.

This was odd. Geralt wasn’t much for cuddling—unless he was completely drunk or so tired, he couldn’t function, and those times were few and far between. So, it was odd. It wasn’t unwanted, and Jaskier could feel his shivers dying down as their collective body heat warmed their little bed. He thought about complaining about the hard floor and how it was hurting his hips, but he thought better of it. He was used to posh beds and mattresses most of the time—but he had been roughing it more and more with Geralt and the hard floor didn’t have as drastic of an effect as it once did. Still, who was he if not a complainer?

“I can’t believe you prefer this to sleeping in a bed.” Jaskier said, hyper-aware of the way the hairs on the back of his own neck moved each time Geralt breathed.

“Hmm.” Geralt replied, a lack of emotion to the sound. It was somewhere between a grunt and a groan and the feeling lacked so much that Jaskier couldn’t help but ponder its real meaning.

He could feel the slow beat of Geralt’s heart against his back. The slow _thump……th….thump_ of a Witcher’s heartbeat. Slower than humans. Slower than something that should be alive.

“Is your life truly so lacking that ‘comfort’ means sleeping in barns and abandoned watchtowers? In the middle of a blizzard?” Jaskier continued, taking Geralt’s hands loosely in his own and bringing them up to his mouth. He puffed on them slowly, letting the cold digits warm up in his breath.

Geralt sighed, not resisting the contact as Jaskier worked to warm them.

“You’re an idiot.” He replied, Jaskier stopping his work to send a sideways glance over his own shoulder. It was difficult with the way they were laying.

“I’m the idiot? I’m just a humble bard, you’re supposed to be the 200-year-old, weather-beaten professional.” He quipped back, feeling comfortable having the Witcher wrapped around him. The hair on Geralt’s chest brushing his back, and the warmth from his groin pressed against the crease of his ass.

“How old are you?” Jaskier asked absently, having pulled the number out of thin air. He didn’t actually know how old the man was. Witchers lived much longer than humans did.  
“You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me,” he replied, ignoring Jaskier’s question.

“I’ll die because of you.” The bard trilled, pressing his back in tighter towards the other.

“Don’t have to follow…” Geralt muttered, tightening his grip slightly on the other.

“And miss all this?” Jaskier said loudly, suddenly gesturing wildly. Geralt seemed a bit caught off guard by the action, loosening his grip on Jaskier, allowing him to roll over.

He lay, facing the Witcher, looking at him for a long moment as he took in the sight. Geralt looked relaxed despite it all. White hair pulled back loosely as stray locks tumbled over his shoulder and fell into his eyes. The once frightening yellow of his eyes now calm as they stared back at Jaskier half-lidded. Scruffy, painfully scruffy, with a square jaw and bowed lips. And handsome, unobjectively so. There was a sadness to the way his eyebrows were permanently pulled together though, making him look both angry and distressed at the same time. But if Jaskier wasn’t mistaken, that expression right now felt less sad than it normally did.

He leaned in, awkwardly reaching for the other’s cheeks as his fingers peeked above the warmth of the covers, holding the Witcher’s face. He kissed him; feeling Geralt’s warm breath as he made long contact. Kissing, caste for now, before Geralt grabbed a hold of his wrists and pulled back.

“No.” He said sharply, his jaw setting as Jaskier lay there dumbstruck, lips still puckered.

“No?” Jaskier asked, dragging the word out slightly with shock. They were laying naked in bed together. No?

“You sweat during sex.” Geralt answered matter-of-factly, expression stern.

“Well, so do you,” Jaskier answered, feeling put out by such a comment.

“Exactly,” Geralt rolled his eyes, sighing again. “When the sweat cools we’ll freeze.”

Jaskier pinched his lips together, scrunching his nose up as he studied the other’s expression. He could see _something_ there, but he wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t completely raring to go himself, and honestly, the romantic feeling of the kiss had been enough for him in the moment, but there was an underline feeling of determination now. Seduce Geralt of Rivia; it felt like a challenge.

“Not it if it never cools” he answered defiantly, rolling his eyes too. He shifted his weight, trying to wriggle his wrists free from the other’s hold. Geralt was too strong though, and instead, Jaskier wrestled uselessly in the other’s grip.

Geralt looked none too impressed by the comment, giving Jaskier a flat look as if he was asking: _‘really?’_ Like a parent catching a child in an obvious lie.

“We’ll just have to stay up until sunrise,” Jaskier continued, closing his eyes and smiling to himself. “I won’t sleep in this cold, and you never sleep so what’s the point? Laying here for hours on end.” He sighed, playing up the exasperation he felt. He stopped struggling, instead craning his neck so the crown of his skull bumped the other’s forehead.

“How am I supposed to sleep anyway?” He asked, peering up at the other, hooking one foot around Geralt’s ankle. “Sleeping here? On the hard ground, trapped in the middle of nowhere? Monsters surely ready to knock down that door any second. Laying here…” he sighed, making his voice sound breathy, “pressed up against you, no other way to stay warm. I can’t sleep. It’s hopeless…” he mused, sliding his knee between the other’s legs, not daring to press up… yet.

Geralt was characteristically quiet and Jaskier waited. Sighing dramatically as he glanced at the man. He could see Geralt watching him, not unwilling to pull away yet, his grip loosening slightly around Jaskier’s wrists. He had him.  
“I’m only human,” Jaskier mused, inching in closing to Geralt, breathing heavily on purpose against the other’s chest. He was so close he could feel the hairs on the other’s chest brushing his lips. “I can’t resist this… could you?” He lifted his head, having bridged the distance between them as he lay there staring at the man, their faces painfully close. “I thought the whole point was to create body heat.” He let the last words roll out of his mouth slowly, breathily as a sly smile spread across his face. He had won, he could see it in those eyes.

Geralt growled; something near animalistic and deep from the chest. The emotion a mix of frustration and arousal. Frustration for losing, for allowing someone to get the better of him, but was it really losing in a situation like this? He wanted to, they both wanted to, it was just a matter of pausing long enough to realize it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading. I promise I have over 2,000 words of NSFW content waiting for you on my patreon. 2,000 words of the continuing story of Geralt and Jaskier, right where I left off. I appreciate the support here but if you are able, toss a coin to your writer.   
> Look up Dungeon Deviant "Ree" for the full story, now up on my patreon in the Devotee Tier. I am unable to link it here.   
> I'm a starving artist and am trying to promote my patreon in ways that may intrigue more readers.  
> I have many other full pieces posted on my AO3 for your enjoyment (NSFW and SFW). And I will be creating more full content stories for AO3 also. Thank-you for your support.
> 
> I also promise I have a SFW and NSFW backlog on my patreon for your entertainment.


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